22. Matteo
MATTEO
Claire comes through the gate with a camera bag cutting into her shoulder and says nothing.
Neither do I.
She is twenty minutes later than the message she sent from Atrani. Her hair is escaping from whatever held it this morning. There is dust on one knee of her trousers and a red line across the back of her hand where a strap has been rubbing.
I am sitting on the low wall outside Casa Ginestra.
She stops when she sees me.
I lift the paper-wrapped focaccia in one hand.
Her eyes close.
That is the correct response.
I stand.
“Inside?”
She nods.
Claire unlocks the door and goes directly to the kitchen table. She puts down the camera bag, then the smaller case, then reaches for the laptop before she has taken off her shoes.
I set the food beside the laptop.
Not on the same side as the card reader.
I put her portable battery beside the laptop. It is fully charged. She left it at my house three nights ago, and the cable in her bag has been unreliable since Ravello.
I do not mention either fact.
Claire sees it.
She looks at the focaccia, then at me.
“Chicken?”
“Prosciutto.”
“Tomato?”
“No.”
“Good.”
She sits.
I recognize this version of tired now.
Questions will make it worse.
Anything that needs two hands probably will not get eaten.
If I ask whether the shoot went well, she will answer because she is polite when exhausted, then resent the effort required to explain.
So I open my laptop at the other end of the table and leave her alone.
Claire unwraps half the focaccia with one hand while the other connects the card reader.
For six minutes, the only sounds in the cottage are the fan, her keyboard, and paper crinkling every time she takes a bite.
Then she says, “You remembered the tomato problem.”
I stay with the report.
“You said they slide out when you are trying to work.”
“That was one sandwich.”
“You were very specific.”
“It ruined a shirt.”
“I remember.”
“Of course you do.”
I wait.
Claire eats another bite.
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
That is all.
At seven twelve, she finishes the first backup and starts the second.
She removes one card, puts it into the small red case, and reaches for another without checking the label twice. Her system looks chaotic until you watch it long enough.
The labels are exact.
The piles are not.
When the second transfer begins, she leans back and lets her head fall against the chair.
“Bad?”
“No.”
“Long?”
“Yes.”
I close the laptop.
She opens one eye.
“That was a question.”
“You answered.”
“Growth.”
“Careful.”
She almost smiles.
I stand.
“Shower.”
“That sounded like an instruction.”
“It was information about the location of your shower.”
“I know where my shower is.”
“Then this is going well.”
She gives me a tired look.
I point toward the hallway.
“Go. I’ll stay with the transfer.”
“You are not touching anything.”
“I know.”
“No clicking.”
“I know.”
“No helpful folder creation.”
“I am offended.”
“You once renamed my charger cable.”
“I labeled it.”
“With a date.”
“It was useful.”
“It was insane.”
“Shower, Claire.”
This time she smiles.
Barely, but enough.
She disappears down the hall.
I sit in the chair she left and do exactly what I was told.
The progress bar moves.
I touch nothing.
I am absurdly proud of this.
My phone is on the table beside me. I use it to answer one message from Milan, reject a call from Sebastian, and put on the playlist Claire uses when she edits but is too tired for lyrics.
The first song starts low through the small speaker by the window.
From the bathroom Claire shouts, “That is creepy.”
“You gave me the playlist.”
“I did not give you editorial control.”
“You have none left.”
“That is rude.”
“You are showering during a backup.”
Claire says nothing for a beat.
“Fair.”
I put the phone beside the speaker.
When Claire comes back, she is wearing my white shirt.
It is the older one with the small tear near the bottom button that I keep meaning to throw away and no longer can because she likes it.
Her hair is wet.
She has removed her contacts and put on the glasses she wears only when her eyes hurt.
Her eyes move over the completed second backup, the charged battery, half the sandwich, then my phone playing her music.
She comes to me.
No speech.
Claire puts both arms around my neck and presses her face into my chest.
I hold her.
Her skin is still warm from the shower.
“Hello,” I say into her wet hair.
“Do not ruin it.”
“I said one word.”
“It was unnecessary.”
I say nothing.
She stays there long enough that my shirt becomes damp where her hair touches it.
Eventually Claire pulls back.
“Now you can ask.”
“How was the shoot?”
“Good.”
“Only good?”
“Very good. I hate everybody.”
“That sounds successful.”
“It was a family-run linen workshop. Three generations. The grandmother refused to be photographed for four hours, then sat in the best light of the entire building while yelling at her grandson.”
“You got the photograph.”
“I got eighteen.”
“Useful hands?”
“So many.”
I nod.
Claire narrows her eyes.
“You are jealous of a seventy-six-year-old woman now?”
“Only if Tessa described her face as excellent.”
Claire finally laughs properly.
I pull her closer by the shirt.
She notices.
“You like this shirt more on me.”
“Yes.”
“You should have said that before I stole it.”
“I did not know before you stole it.”
“That is almost romantic.”
“It is accurate.”
“Still counts.”
We eat the rest of the focaccia at the table while Claire tells me about Signora De Luca refusing to move a basket because it had been in the same place since 1987.
“She said the light could adjust.”
“To the basket.”
“Yes.”
“I like her.”
“You would.”
“She understands fixed systems.”
“She also called her grandson useless because he bought plastic storage bins.”
“I respect her less.”
Claire takes my water.
I let her.
At eight thirty, the files are safe in three places.
Claire closes the laptop.
“Done?”
“For tonight.”
“That sounds unlike you.”
“It is unlike me.”
She gets up, walks to the sofa, and drops onto it sideways.
My shirt rides high on her thigh.
I look away too late.
Claire notices.
“Very disciplined.”
“I am making an effort.”
“Why?”
“You were exhausted an hour ago.”
“I showered.”
“That is not medical treatment.”
“I also ate.”
“Half a sandwich.”
“Most of a sandwich.”
“I ate the rest.”
“That is your problem.”
I sit beside her.
Claire puts her bare feet in my lap as if this arrangement was established by treaty.
I take one ankle.
She makes a small sound and sinks lower.
“You have eighteen days left at Ginestra,” I say.
Her eyes open.
“That was romantic until the math.”
“I was not attempting romance.”
“Liar.”
I rub my thumb over the arch of her foot.
Claire watches me.
“Eighteen,” she says.
“Yes.”
“That is rude.”
“The calendar did it.”
“Coward.”
“I accept no responsibility for August.”
“You take responsibility for weather delays.”
“Only when operationally relevant.”
She smiles.
Her smile fades by degrees.
“I keep thinking I should start packing things I’m not using.”
“That would be sensible.”
“I hate when you agree with me.”
“You could leave everything until the final morning.”
“That sounds like sabotage.”
“It would be.”
She shifts until her shoulder is against mine.
My hand stays around her ankle.
“The weird part,” she says, “is I don’t feel finished here.”
I say nothing.
This is the kind of sentence I can damage by answering too quickly.
Claire traces the seam of my trousers with one toe.
“Return isn’t finished either. But I knew that.”
“You can keep working on it after you leave.”
“I know.”
She turns toward the open doors.
Outside, the last light is nearly gone from the wall around the terrace.
“I mean here.”
I understand.
I wish I did not understand quite so well.
“There are eighteen days,” I say.
“That is not very many.”
“No.”
“And also a lot.”
“Yes.”
She leans her head against my shoulder.
My phone changes songs on the table.
Neither of us speaks for a while.
I know exactly what is happening and it does not help. I love her, and in eighteen days she leaves.
Claire turns her face into my shoulder.
“You’re thinking too loudly.”
“I am sitting still.”
“Exactly.”
“What would you prefer?”
“I don’t know.”
“That is inconvenient.”
“Very.”
I put my hand over hers where it rests on my thigh.
She turns her palm up.
Our fingers fit together without adjustment now.
I dislike how much that does to me.
Claire glances at our hands.
“Inspector.”
“No.”
“You’re holding my hand symmetrically.”
“That is not a thing.”
“It is now.”
“You have corrupted language.”
“You like me.”
“Yes.”
The word comes out before I can moderate it.
Claire goes quiet.
I feel her look at me.
I watch the darkening terrace.
“You said that very seriously.”
“I am capable of seriousness.”
“I know.”
Her thumb moves across mine once.
There is another sentence behind it. Neither of us says it.
My phone starts another song.
Claire reaches for it.
“Change this.”
I hand it to her without thinking.
The screen is unlocked because the music app is open.
She scrolls through the playlist, rejects three songs, chooses an old Italian one I have heard since I was fourteen, and puts the phone back on the cushion between us.
“You picked that one on purpose.”
“You sing the chorus badly.”
“I do not sing it badly.”
“You invent a word in the second line.”
“That is artistic interpretation.”
“It is Italian.”
“Still art.”
I laugh.
She kisses me.
Her mouth is on mine, her hand at the back of my neck, and my first thought is that she tastes faintly of toothpaste and bread.
My second thought is worse.
I love you.
I keep it inside.
Claire shifts closer.
Her knees come across my lap.
The kiss changes without becoming hurried. One hand stays low on her back, the other away from the shoulder that always aches first after a long shoot.
She relaxes when I loosen my arm around her sore shoulder. When I kiss below her ear, the small sound I expect arrives. If she wants something different, she tells me.
Claire pulls back just enough to breathe.
“Bedroom?”
“Yes.”
She stands and holds out her hand.
I take it.
In the bedroom, the fan is already turning.
My shirt is on her body.
Her sandals are under the chair. My book is on her nightstand. I have stopped noticing either until tonight.
Claire sees my attention move around the room.
“Do not start counting things.”
“I was not.”
“You were.”
“I was observing.”
“Dangerous word.”
She unbuttons the shirt.
I stop counting anything.
She leaves it open and comes to me.
I kiss her again.
Her hands slide under my shirt, warm against my back.
I kiss her until she pulls back and says my name.
“Matteo.”
“Yes.”
For a second, she just looks at me.
I almost ask what she is thinking.
Claire pulls my shirt over my head.
We undress each other without jokes until her bracelet catches in the hem of my trousers.
She starts laughing.
I look down.
“This is badly designed.”
“You are blaming the bracelet?”
“It is currently attached to my pants.”
“That sounds personal.”
I free it carefully.
Claire catches my face in both hands.
The laughter leaves her.
“Come here.”
“I am here.”
“Closer.”
I move her back onto the bed.
She opens for me without hesitation, then hooks one hand behind my neck before I can move away from her mouth.
“Stay up here.”
The words make my chest hurt.
I nod.
I kiss her mouth instead.
Her legs close around my hips.
When I reach toward the nightstand, she lets me go only long enough to get the condom.
Her hands come right back to me.
“Still okay?” I ask.
“Yes.”
I enter her.
Claire’s eyes stay on mine. I can adjust my hand at her hip. I can respond when she wants more pressure. I have no useful response to the way she keeps looking at me, like the answer is already here and both of us are refusing to say the question.
I move.
Claire says my name.
I kiss her before she can say anything else.
For a while there is only her hands on my shoulders and my mouth against hers.
The bed shifts once against the wall, and Claire laughs into my neck because the sound is ridiculous.
“Quiet,” I say.
“You did that.”
“We both did that.”
“Shared liability.”
“Finally, a reasonable position.”
She bites my shoulder.
I lose the argument.
The laughter fades, but the closeness does not.
Claire pulls me down until there is almost no space left between us.
When she comes, she says my name again, quieter.
I follow with my face against her neck.
Afterward I stay over her until my arms object.
Claire touches the back of my head.
“Matteo.”
I move enough to look at her.
She has that expression again, open enough that I stop moving.
“I...” she says.
I want the rest of the sentence badly enough to frighten me.
So I interrupt.
“What time is your shoot tomorrow?”
Claire blinks.
Claire says nothing for a beat.
Then she says, “Wow.”
I close my eyes.
“That was bad.”
“That was extraordinary.”
“I know.”
“You just asked about my call time.”
“Yes.”
“While naked.”
“Yes.”
“After I started a sentence.”
“I am aware of the sequence.”
Claire stares at me for another second.
Her mouth starts to curve.
“Coward.”
“Probably.”
She touches my jaw.
“You could have let me finish.”
“Yes.”
“But you were terrified.”
I consider denying it, briefly.
“Yes.”
Claire’s smile softens.
She does not finish the sentence.
She kisses me once instead.
“Six forty-five.”
I almost laugh.
“That is terrible.”
“See? Practical question. Useful answer.”
“I regret asking.”
“No, you don’t.”
I lie beside her.
She turns into me.
My phone is still on the sofa.
A few minutes later, Claire says, “Music.”
“You want music?”
“I want the fan louder and music quieter.”
“That is two different systems.”
“You will survive.”
I get up.
My trousers are on the floor beside the bed. I retrieve my phone from the sofa, bring it back, lower the music, and adjust the fan.
Claire points at me from the pillow.
“See? This is why I keep you.”
“I was unaware that had been decided.”
“Do not become difficult.”
I put the phone on the nightstand.
She reaches for my wrist.
I get back into bed.
Claire falls asleep quickly.
My phone lights once with a message I ignore.
The screen dims again.
For a moment, I think about deleting C.B. / Impossible Ten.
I have not opened it since before the gallery.
Claire shifts in her sleep and catches two of my fingers in her hand.
I look at our hands.
Her grip is loose.
I could reach for the phone with my other hand.
Instead I turn onto my side and let her keep mine.
The phone stays on the nightstand.